


Licensed in Hospitality in Six States

by ameliacareful



Series: Massa Carnis [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean learns the meaning of hospitality, F/M, M/M, Sam is a slave, Slow Burn, slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful
Summary: Dean heads to a bar to blow off a little steam.  Sam is welcome in the bar but it's okay, he'll wait in the car.





	Licensed in Hospitality in Six States

            They walk into the bar, Dean in front and Sam behind him and Dean can feel the usual eyes upon them. They shake off the cold, or at least Dean does, and pretends he doesn’t notice. It’s a little roadhouse bar off Highway 54 in Missouri. Someplace where it’s probably only locals and the occasional on-the-way-to or from-somewhere-else. Sam has his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. Hiding the barcode on his left hand.

            Dean gets them a couple of beers. Sam has had beer before. Likes it, when he can get it which these days is often because Dean likes beer and doesn’t like to sit with someone and not allow them to drink it. He doesn’t drink a lot and he has the tolerance of a twelve year old girl, but that’s okay. They’ve fought a wendigo and the kid was clueless but when push came to shove, he was right there, arms outstretched, putting himself between the civilians and the monster and Dean knew them that some things can’t be taught and Sam had at least some of those things.

            Bloody Mary didn’t go so well. Dean is still chewing on that.

            But tomorrow night they’ll be digging up a grave, doing a simple salt and burn. Tonight is beer and a motel room.

            Dean is feeling off. He’s been feeling it for weeks now. He’s pretty sure it’s because he’s hunting with a partner and other than his dad, he’s never really done that for any length of time. You partner with family because they’ve got your back. He’s done one shots with people like Caleb and he doesn’t mind doing them. But he’s never really found that sync with anyone but his dad. With his dad he knows what he’s supposed to do and what his dad is going to do and it’s great.

            They’re standing by the bar and drinking beers.

            “Hey,” says a woman. Older than him by a few years but Dean kind of likes that. Likes a woman who knows what she wants.

            “Hello yourself,” Dean says and he smiles. It bounces against her and she smiles and her smile bounces against him and they’re standing there in the ripples of mutual attraction like they’re in some kind of pure, clean water after a desert. She asks what brings them here and Dean says they’re passing through for work. She has very pink lips. Not a ton of lipstick, more like something that looks almost liquid. Her eyes are brown, he hair is blond. Not natural blond but nice looking, done well. She’s got dream catcher earrings and a turquoise necklace and Dean says over the sound of Lynard Skynard singing about Alabama that he really likes her necklace.

            Her name is Rose. She says she has a tattoo of one but she doesn’t say where.

            He buys her a beer.

            “Who’s your friend?” she asks.

            “This is Sam,” he says.

            Sam unleashes the angular smile and dimples and the ripples in the pool of the moment mean they’re all smiling and feeling it.

            They’re here so Dean can play a little pool and get them a little cash—they’re not broke but there is no reason to get too tight on money. So Dean lets Rose wash over him. She smells nice, some kind of perfume.

            “Maybe you both want to meet my friend Bethany?” she says.

            Sam glances at Dean but Dean ignores the glance and says, “Sure.” They wind through the crowded little bar to meet Bethany, who is a red head and not as pretty as Rose but is sarcastic as fuck and when Dean can hear her over the music, she makes him laugh. Sam is on the edge of the conversation, nursing his beer. Dean buys another round and puts his quarter on the pool table to signal he’s up next for a game. Do the girls want to play pool? Bethany does so Rose complains that she’s terrible at it but Dean says Sam doesn’t even know how to play so Bethany can team with Sam and they’ll be evenly matched.

            Dean is on his fifth beer when their turn comes up.

            “Think you can teach him?” Dean says to Bethany.

            She looks up and up at Sam and says, “I can teach him a lot.” Everybody laughs but Sam who looks sheepish.

            She grabs a pool cue for herself and one for Sam.

            “Rose,” Dean says, “You break. Let these guys get a bit of a head start.”

            “I might get lucky,” Rose says. He likes her. He really does. She’s not needy or crazy. She knows they're leaving town tomorrow and she likes what she sees and everybody knows the ropes here. Everybody is in it to have a good time.

            Bethany says, “Sam, hold your pool cue like this,” and she leans over, right hand the bridge, left holding the stick.

            Sam mimics her, but it means taking his left hand out of his pocket. The barcode suddenly seems as if it’s as big as the surface of the pool table.

            “Have you ever played at all?” she asks. She hasn’t noticed it yet and neither has Rose. Maybe they won’t. Maybe it won’t matter to them.

            Sam shakes his head.

            “Okay, you don’t want the pool cue tip to touch the felt. I mean, it happens, but you want to hit the ball. Look past the ball to where you want to go. You’re going to use the white ball to hit one of the other balls, like that six right there. Then you want the six to go in the pocket.”

            Sam nods. His stroke is terrible, of course. Too tentative. The cue ball just kisses the six.

            His hand is back in his pocket, the other holding the cue.

            “Hey!” a guy calls from the bar. “Sir? You, back at the pool table. We don’t allow slaves in the bar.”

            “What?” Rose says.

            “I’ll wait in the car,” Sam says.

            Bethany looks at Dean. “You’ve got a slave?”

            He never knows exactly what people mean when they ask it but he’s pretty sure Bethany is saying _you don’t look like a douche_. Sometimes they’re saying, _you don’t look rich_. Sometimes they’re saying, _and I thought you were a nice guy_.

            Rose looks at Sam, frowning.

            “He’s certified for—” Dean stutters over the spiel.

            “I'm certified as service stock and licensed for hospitality in California and Louisiana,” Sam says. “But I can wait in the car.”

            “Sam’s okay,” Dean says. It should be obvious.

            “Service stock?” Rose says, her eyes narrowed.

            “Yes ma’am,” Sam says.

            “Service like therapy,” Dean says, knowing as soon as it’s out of his mouth that it’s not helping.

            “Something wrong with you?” Bethany asks.

            “I'm owned by Dean and his father for their family business,” Sam says.

            “He’s gotta go outside,” the bartender says. “We don’t do none of that slave and master shit here.”

            Dean has a vague idea from television, something about clubs, but he thought it was mostly S&M gay shit and has never really paid any attention to it.

            It doesn’t matter, this is not working. He digs the Impala’s keys out of his pocket and says, “Take a nap, Sam.”

            “Yessir,” Sam says and carefully puts the cue back. The place is quiet except for the too loud juke box. _In Birmingham they love the Gov'nor, boo-hoo-hoo/Now we all did what we could do/Now Watergate does not bother me/Does your conscience bother you, tell the truth…_

            Sam winds his way through the crowd.

            “That’s a big buck,” someone says.

            When Sam goes outside, all the eyes turn back to Dean. “You don’t look like a slave owner,” Rose says.

            Dean shrugs. “How about I get another round and we forget about pool?”

            “Your daddy rich or something?” she prods.

            “He won Sam in a poker game,” Dean says. Sometimes the truth is the best lie of all.

            “No shit?” she says.

            Dean shrugs again, grinning.

            The chatter in the bar slowly starts to pick up again.

            “You think he’ll be okay in the parking lot?” Dean asks.

            Rose nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

            He feels as if he should go after Sam but Sam is a slave. He tells himself that. Sam is a slave. Dean’s actually better to Sam than most people would be. What’s he supposed to do, never go to a bar again?

 

#

 

            Sam waits in the car for awhile.

            Sometimes Dean confuses the fuck out of things. Sam tells himself it’s just a learning curve, Dean doesn’t know diddly squat about how things are done.

            Sam’s pretty sure that he screwed up Dean’s plan to make money playing pool. He could make money for Dean. It’s not his favorite thing to do in the world, but he could.

            Someone raps on the window. It’s a guy from the bar. He’s in his fifties, red-faced. The back of his neck is creased from years of working outside.

            “Hey, boy,” the man says.

            “Yessir?” Sam says.

            “You say you’re licensed?”

            “Yessir.”

            “How much?”

            “My owner has set my price at a hundred, sir,” Sam says, although the owner that set that price was neither Dean nor Walt. “Blow job. Right?”

            The man nods and gestures for Sam to get out of the car.

            It’s a dicey moment, this one, negotiating and hoping that the guy isn’t just interested in curb stomping a slave, but Sam’s gut feeling looks as if it was right. The guy has a truck, a big white Ram with a front seats as wide as the state of Tennessee.

            “How about a fuck?” the guys says. “I’ll pay.”

            “Sorry sir,” Sam says. “I didn’t prep.” He has been thinking about how he can get hold of an enema bulb so he could be ready and clean if Dean ever wanted him to work. Or if Dean ever wanted to fuck him. But he hasn’t figured out a way to ask Dean to buy it yet.

            The guy nods. “You’re a big buck,” he says.

            “Yessir,” Sam says. “You are a man who can handle me, though. I can tell, sir.”

            The man quirks a smile. “That’s a nice line, boy.”

            “You seem like a real solid guy, sir.”

            The owner sits in the passenger side of the truck, and scoots the big passenger seat all the way back and reclines it. “You fit in there?”

            Sam’s fit in worse. The man undoes his belt and his jeans and struggles a little to get his underwear tucked under his balls.

            “That good?” the man says.

            Sam climbs in and kneels, leaning forward because of the glove compartment and the man’s dick is right there. He’s half hard and smells of sweat and musk and day long underwear, a familiar smell. Sam leans forward and takes the man’s half-hard dick into his mouth and the guy gasps.  

            Sam works him a couple of times, hands braced on the edges of the seat. He likes the man’s first involuntary gasp and the way his dick starts filling immediately. The man is curved and about average in size. Sam tries to lick the man’s balls a bit but the angle is wrong so he just spits on his hand, wraps it around the guy’s cock and goes back to sucking him in.

            He can deep throat if he’s careful but it’s not always the best and most enjoyable way for someone to get off. He likes a combination of hand and mouth.

            He looks up through his bangs to see if the guy wants him to look at him but the guy has his head back. In the dome light Sam can see grizzled stubble on his chin and jawline. Looking is a bit of a strain anyway so Sam closes his eyes and just gives the guy some steady up and down for awhile.

            There’s a bit of bitter, salty pre-come, and the guy is starting to move his hands on his thighs—getting close. Sam pulls off for a moment and blows across the guy’s dick. His breath, he knows, is cooling, and when he puts his mouth back on the guy, his mouth feels hot and the guy makes that little gasp again. Sam slides the head of the dick towards the back of his throat, letting his tongue go down the shaft, and licks and he comes back up and there’s that little gasp again.

            Then he goes back to pistoning, turning his hand around the base, up and down the shaft, stopping a moment to flatten his tongue against the head of the guy’s dick. There’s another bit of pre-come and Sam ummmms, like he is enjoying the taste and he can feel the hum vibrate a little through his hand. That sound and vibration push the guy over the edge. He jerks, almost soundless, just a couple of little grunts, and Sam almost loses his dick out of his mouth but manages to keep it and swallow. Less mess.

            Then Sam wipes his face.

            He lets the man sit for a moment, aftershocks of the orgasm still coming for a bit. Then he climbs back out and stands by the truck. “Have you got a tissue, sir?” he asks.

            The guy gestures towards the glove box and inside Sam finds fast food napkins. He crumples one up into a ball and rolls it in his hands, softening it, then uses it to clean the man up.

            “No, no, that’s okay, boy,” the man says, apparently surprised, taking it from him and finishing wiping Sam’s spit off him. Sam is more used to the massage parlor where they had wash cloths and wet wipes. He crouches down and waits while the guy tucks himself in. The evening is quiet. A car pulls into the parking lot, tires crunching on gravel but the truck is parked near the back and not really visible.

            “My wife stopped wanting sex a few years ago,” the guy says.

            “I’m sorry, sir.” Sam hadn’t even looked for a ring. Some times he hates when someone wants to talk but tonight it’s okay.

            “I love her, but a man has needs.”

            Sam doesn’t say anything, just makes a kind of vague agreement sound.

            “I’m not gay,” the man says.

            “You don’t seem gay,” Sam says making sure he sounds as though nothing was further from his mind. It’s one of the safer answers to this question. He tries to avoid saying things like, _I never thought you were_. Slaves don’t have opinions so he tries not to say ‘I’.

            “Men are cleaner, you know?”

            Sam makes a noncommittal noise because he doesn’t really know what the guy means.

            “If I had sex with a woman, I’d be cheating. Because I really do love women and I don’t want to cheat on my wife. Guys don’t expect anything but sex.”

            “Yessir,” Sam says.

            “My first time having sex with a slave,” the guy says.

            “Was it okay?” Sam says.

            “Yeah, it was fine.” The guy climbs out of the truck—Sam has to scramble a little to get out of the way. The guy pulls five twenties out of his wallet and gives them to Sam.

            “Thank you sir, you have a nice evening,” Sam says and walks back to the Impala.

 

#

 

            Rose leaves around 1:00am (she never seemed to get over his owning a slave) and Dean ends up in the little bathroom with Bethany. She’s got a tight ass and hot mouth that glistens red when she opens up. He’s drunk but not DRUNK if you know what that means and he spends some time with his hand in her pants feeling her get wet, feeling his fingers slide through the folds.

            His fingers smell like sex. “You smell great,” he whispers. “You’re a hot little piece of something aren’t you.”

            She undoes his belt buckle. She’s short so sex standing up is a little acrobatic but they manage, hoisting her ass up on the rim of the sink. She’s wearing a little denim skirt and a red thong.

            He thinks abruptly of Sam in the parking lot and pushes the thought aside. The whole slave thing is a complicated mess. He’s going to have to figure something out. Bethany kisses him, hungry and hard, and he whispers, “Gonna take care of you baby.” He slides a condom, unrolling it down his dick.

            She makes hungry noises and her legs feel like they’re trying to climb his thighs. He uses his fingers, finding her sweet spot, teasing while she bounces and squirms, then goes a little harder and rubs to make her come, and her face turned up is so clenched and tight it sends waves of arousal through him. Then he takes his cock in his hand and smears the head against her and pushes up into her and she makes a tiny adorable squeak. “Oh God,” she says after a minute. “I’m going to come again!”

            He pumps into her and uses a finger between them on her clit and he can feel when she does come, when she spasms and tightens on his dick, again and again. He’s almost there and he doesn’t want to make her sore so he finds the edge and breaths a moment to let it build them tightens again and pumps a couple of times and then the world whites out in the moment where he can no longer think, or feel, or worry about slaves, the moment he can lose the world for just a little bit.

 

#

 

            Dean is loose and tired from Bethany and a long day of driving, from beers and the lateness of the hour. He finds Sam asleep in the back of the Impala, head against the window, and checks the door. Yeah, the door is locked, good kid. Sam wakes up at the sound and unlocks the door, hands him the keys.

            “We might have to sleep in the car,” Dean says. “That last credit card is probably done.”

            Sam shifts then his hand comes over the back seat holding five twenties.

            “Where’d you get that?” Dean asks.

            “Some guy wanted a blow job,” Sam says.

            Dean laughs.

            Sam smiles, half asleep.

            Dean waits for the real explanation.

            It dawns on him. “Wait, really? You blew a guy for a hundred dollars?”

            “Yeah,” Sam says. “I messed up your pool game so I thought it would help with the money thing.”

            Dean is too tired for this. “What the fuck!”

            Sam looks confused. “Was…did… I mean, a hundred is what they used to charge at the massage parlor. The guy seemed happy with it.”

            “Damn it, Sam! I didn’t tell you to do that!”

            Sam shrinks down a little in the seat.

            “You can’t just go giving guys blowjobs in parking lots! What if he’d…I dunno! These rednecks could decide to beat the shit out of you!”

            “Yessir,” Sam says quietly.

            “What did you do, ask everyone leaving if they wanted a suck!?”

            “No sir. He asked me.”

            “Why the fuck would he do that?!”

            “Because he heard I was licensed for hospitality.”

            Dean’s gut twists. He’s heard Sam say it twenty times. More. _I'm certified as service stock and licensed for hospitality in California and Louisiana_. Sam is certified in something like six states so sometimes it’s California and Louisiana, sometimes California and Nevada and sometimes it’s just California. He thought that meant like he could go in restaurants and like work in hotels and shit. Hospitality.

            Hospitality means sex work.

            Sam just blew a guy in the parking lot for money. Because he thinks it’s his job.

            “You could have kept it,” Dean growls. “I’d never have known.”

            “You…you’re spending a lot of money on me. I’m sorry. I won’t do it unless you tell me to.”

            “I’m NOT GOING TO TELL YOU TO!”

            Sam shrunk back against the seat.

            “Don’t ever whore yourself out for again! Do you hear me!”

            “Yessir,” Sam says.

            Dean feels like an asshole, which is not exactly a new feeling, but it’s replaced the lose, after sex feeling he had before and he’s pissed. Pissed at Sam. Pissed at himself. Pissed at the world. He turns on the Impala and doesn’t tell Sam to get in the passenger seat. Sam’s been riding in the passenger seat because Dean hates driving for ten hours with him in the back but right now he just lets the gravel spit from under the Impala’s tires and gets out on the road.

            It’s almost three when he sees a hotel. Sam isn’t asleep in the back. He’s sitting still with his head down.

            He spends $70 on a room. With two queens.

            He’s going to have to figure out something about this whole slave thing. This isn’t working.

           


End file.
